


the loyalists are not a cutlery drawer

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Frottage, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Priests, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like the start of a bad joke: an Overseer and an Admiral have to share a room with just one bed. The punchline is exactly what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the loyalists are not a cutlery drawer

**Author's Note:**

> There’s been a lot of wonderful art of these two, but no one’s written fic yet that I’ve seen. JUST TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM, FOLKS. Also, I really wish I could remember who started the speculation on where exactly Martin _sleeps_ at the Hound Pits, because this story is at least partially their fault.

It’s a very tiny bed.

“I don’t object to sleeping on the floor,” Martin says again, because he feels like it maybe didn’t sink in the first time and it’s a _very tiny bed_. “Or the servant quarters, even. I’ve been sleeping in dormitories since I became an Overseer, Havelock. It wouldn’t be an issue.”

Havelock’s large fingers are surprisingly deft as he attacks the complicated array of buttons and buckles and clasps on his coat and shrugs it off. ”Pendleton’s man would pitch a fit,” he says. He hangs the coat on the back of the chair and starts on his waistcoat next. “And don’t be ridiculous. You just spent a day and a half in the stocks. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

Martin sighs. Pendleton’s man had, in fact, pitched a fit when he broached the subject of sleeping accommodations, and when the conversation reached the point where an increasingly desperate Wallace was threatening to kick the rest of the servants out so that Martin could have the entire room to himself, Martin quickly backtracked and said there was no need. He’d figure something out.

This particular ‘something’ is not what he had in mind.

“ _You_ could sleep on the floor,” he feels obliged to point out. The flat, unamused look he earns with this statement is exactly what he expected. 

“Get undressed,” is all Havelock says. “That coat of yours could house an army and the bed’s too damn small for that.”

He’s down to his shirtsleeves now, suspenders off his shoulders and hanging around his thighs, and Martin very carefully lets his gaze go unfocused as he starts on his own uniform. It’s a long-standing habit, borne of years spent living in close quarters among men for whom self-denial was a matter of course. Believing in the Strictures was one thing; maintaining the practice of living them was quite another. The Fugue helped but carried its own set of problems, and after a while it was easier to just refrain from looking altogether.

It’s difficult, though. Martin _believes_ , with every fiber of his soul, but it’s still so damn difficult sometimes.

By the time he’s out of his first layer, Havelock’s a blur of flesh and gray wool in his peripheral vision. It’s a relief when he extinguishes the lights – without asking if Martin minds, which he doesn’t – and flips back the covers. Now Martin can struggle down to his drawers in peace, and he doesn’t have to worry that Havelock’s watching him the whole time.

Not that Havelock would watch him. He’s getting the feeling that Havelock honestly doesn’t care one way or another, and it’s just his own awareness of broad shoulders and scarred skin that’s making him jumpy.

The rough sheets are chilly when he slides between them, but quickly warm as they spend several minutes struggling to find a comfortable way to coexist in the narrow confines of the bed. Havelock, Martin decides, is just too fucking big. He’d known this was a terrible idea from the start, and the way he’s teetering uncomfortably on the edge of the bed just proves it. Pointedly, he jabs Havelock in the ribs with an elbow, feels a mean sort of satisfaction when the man grunts in surprise and tries to edge away.

“This is why I wanted to sleep on the floor,” Martin says. “You’re taking up too much room.”

Havelock makes an irritated noise. “If you elbow me again, you’re sleeping _outside_.”

Privately, Martin wonders if that might not be so bad. After all, the boatman sleeps outside. Seems to enjoy it too, if what Martin’s overheard from his conversations with Corvo is any indication. Maybe he could drag a mattress outside, prop some boards into a makeshift shack—

Havelock rolls onto his side and takes half the covers with him. Martin growls, yanks them back, and rolls onto his right side so that they’re lying back to back.

This, as it turns out, is no better. Martin’s knees are hanging over the edge and he’s lost most of the pillow and Havelock’s heels are digging into his calves, and it’s so painfully awkward that he’s wishing Havelock vague physical harm because maybe then he could actually sleep. Every time one of them tries to change position, an elbow or a knee ends up where it shouldn’t.

He hopes Havelock regrets this. He really, truly does.

After another five minutes of uncomfortable movement, Havelock finally grumbles, “This is ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Martin snaps, shoves back the covers so he can find somewhere else – anywhere else – to sleep, and freezes as a very large arm wraps around his waist and holds him still.

He is—

By the fishy balls of the Outsider, Admiral Farley fucking Havelock is spooning him.

The worst thing is, the position is the most comfortable one they’ve found yet. The bed is still much too small for two men, but Martin feels himself settling into Havelock’s negative space far more easily than he’d like and his desire to relax into the…well, the embrace, not to put too fine a point on it, is worrisome. 

In fact, there are many worrying things about the current situation. Martin starts numbering them in his head, mostly to distract himself from the fact that he can feel Havelock’s breath on his neck and it’s doing things to parts of his anatomy he’d rather ignore.

 _One_ : Havelock is a damn furnace. Martin’s already sweating, and the inevitable slide of skin against skin when one of them finally moves doesn’t bear thinking about. 

_Two_ : Breath on the back of his neck, warm and steady and insistent. Martin’s not obsessing about it. He’s not.

 _Three_ : He is never going to fall asleep like this.

 _Four_ : Havelock, because he is a bastard, probably will.

 _Five_ : And then he’ll be stuck, Havelock’s arm a heavy weight over his midsection and their hips snug together, the long line of Havelock’s thighs pressed against the back of his own, Havelock’s stupid breathing, and it’s not like he can surreptitiously take care of matters himself when the man’s all but draped over him, oh no, because then Havelock would wake up and that’s a conversation he never ever wants to have and…

He’s about to start detailing reason number six when there’s a faint catch to Havelock’s breathing. It’s the sort of thing he wouldn’t have noticed if Havelock wasn’t all but wrapped around him, and once he notices that he can’t help but notice…other things too.

“Havelock,” Martin says, very slowly and very carefully, “please tell me that’s not a sword handle.” He pauses, considers the man he’s speaking to, and adds, “Or a gun.”

When Havelock snorts, hair stirs on the back of Martin’s neck and he shivers in spite of himself, and…oh sweet mercy, _that is not a sword_. 

Or a gun.

…definitely a weapon, though.

“Would you rather it was?” Havelock says. Martin hates this about him, the fact that Havelock is so scathingly awful at telling jokes that it’s impossible to tell when he’s genuinely made one. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He sounds, in fact, unfailingly polite, as if his slowly hardening cock wasn’t nestled right up against curve of Martin’s ass. 

This, Martin decides, is quite possibly the most fucked-up thing to happen to him in a long time, and he just spent a day and a half in the stocks in front of Holger Square, being threatened with the Heretic’s Brand and unsure if he was actually going to make it out alive.

By the Void, how is he even supposed to answer the question?

The silence spools out, longer and increasingly tense with each passing second, and Martin’s not sure if his lack of response is making things worse or better. He should be making a smart remark right about now, shouldn’t he? Some crack about Navy men and their swords, or how he would rather it was a gun, actually, because a gun would probably be smaller and—

 _Shit_. No. He absolutely cannot say that.

But not saying anything at all isn’t much better, because he has no idea what Havelock’s thinking and silence is terriby easy to misinterpret. He’s learned that the hard way, many times over. He should say something. He should say something, and then he should get out of bed, and he should – should—

“Overseers,” Havelock mutters into his hair. He sounds exasperated. “I’ve never seen men tie themselves into such knots for nothing,” and then he shifts his hips backward ever so slightly and no, no that’s worse, because now it’s incredibly obvious just how hard he is and Martin’s heart is pounding so loudly that he thinks Havelock must be able to feel it, vibrating through him from where his broad chest mirrors the curve of Martin’s back.

“Just ignore it,” Havelock says. Sleepy and utterly, ridiculously reasonable. “It will go away eventually.”

Martin’s voice sounds hollow and dazed, as though it’s coming from very far away. Like another man is speaking with his mouth, perhaps, and that’s what it has to be because Teague Martin would never say, “That can’t possibly be healthy.”

…would he?

Apparently, he would.

Havelock utters a low, rusty chuckle. Moves his hips back to their former position before pressing just a bit closer, like he’s making a point. “Unbelievable.” 

“What?”

“You. Don’t you have vows?”

“Don’t you?” Martin fires back waspishly, but Havelock just outright laughs at him and he turns his face into the pillow, fuming, angry at Havelock for being so matter-of-fact and angry at himself for wanting the grab the man’s hand and drag it _lower_. This sort of thing is probably easy for sailors. Sure, there are rules, but there are always rules and in situations where women are scarce, things…happen. Everyone knows that. Close quarters, and all that. Mutually agreed-upon stress relief. And unlike the Overseers, for whom _want_ and _desire_ is carefully regulated and strictly proportioned, Martin’s gotten the impression that the powers in the military just sort of…look the other way unless goings-on interfere with the normal course of the duty.

“No,” Havelock says, and suddenly his voice is much quieter. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

He doesn’t add, _and neither do you_ , but it doesn’t matter. They’re both thinking it. And that’s—

Well, that’s a bit awful, isn’t it? 

Technically, he knows that vows like his don’t just disappear because he’s been stripped of his rank. Even if they’d branded him a heretic like they wanted, the Void knows he’d still be the same man inside, where the brand doesn’t touch. It’s politics, and Campbell was a corrupt bastard, and Martin may not be an Overseer right now but…he’s still an Overseer. His vows, they still count. It’s not like year’s end and the Fugue.

But…well.

Martin tends to be harder on himself than the men who were raised up in the faith, and right now all he can think about is warm breath and warm skin and the fact that Havelock’s willing to touch him with no strings of any sort attached. The last Fugue was so long ago and he hadn’t – he _couldn’t_ , not when he kept worrying that he wouldn’t feel clean again when the bells chimed, that he’d never feel clean again, not when he’d fought so long and so hard for his soul and—

And it feels so good, to be touched.

“I still have my vows,” Martin says. “And whether you want to acknowledge them or not, you do too.”

Havelock’s sigh sounds more than a little irritated. “You need to make up your damn mind,” he grumbles. “I don’t really care one way or another, but if it’s all the same to you I’d rather take care of this so I can get to sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

_He’d rather take care of—_

Martin starts snickering, helplessly, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all and the fact that thinking about Havelock _taking care of matters himself_ has caused him to go from half-hard to almost painfully so in less than thirty seconds. The past week has been one long whirlwind of, “this cannot be happening to me,” and it appears as though the surprises are still coming because he simply can’t handle this anymore.

“How do you plan to – by the Void, man, the bed is too small!“ 

On Havelock’s side of the bed, the silence is taking on a distinctly annoyed quality and he’s _still pressed against Martin’s ass_ , this is just…this is absolutely beautiful. Martin turns his face into the pillow again so he doesn’t wake up the servants with his howling. “You’d just be punching me in the back the whole time.”

“I’m thinking of punching you right now,” Havelock says, his voice carefully even. 

That’s fair, Martin thinks, that’s definitely fair, he’s maybe getting a little hysterical and although it’s not entirely his fault – he’s very tired and it’s been a trying few days – it can’t be all that fun having him for a bedmate. He tries vainly to stifle his laughter and only partially succeeds.

“I suppose you could just go toss off by your desk,” he says finally, when he’s gotten hold of himself, “if it’s that urgent and won’t settle on its own. The bed’s too tiny for anything else.”

Now Havelock just sounds appalled. “Outsider’s eyes, man. I can just roll onto my back.”

“And elbow me in the spine while you 'take care of things'?” Martin says. “I’ve seen your elbows, Havelock. That’s unacceptable.”

“Then what exactly do you suggest?” Havelock snaps. “It would’ve gone away by now if you hadn’t kept _talking_ about it, you idiot, so I fail to see what—“ He breaks off, confusion coloring his voice. “Martin, what are you doing?”

“Taking care of things,” Martin says. Trying to negotiate the buttons of his drawers in such tight confines is a little more difficult than he anticipated and he accidentally kicks Havelock in the shins at one point. “You could help, you know.”

“Help…how, exactly?” Havelock says, but there’s movement behind him, the rustling of blankets and the snap of buttons, and Martin shivers as Havelock’s knuckles brush the base of his spine. 

He’s a lot less sure of this now that there are no layers between them. Havelock feels much bigger outside the constraints of his drawers, and his own body is still annoyingly interested in the proceedings. To take his mind off it, he clears his throat and says, a little shakily, “So…I guess we should, ah…”

He flinches as a big, warm hand smooths over his hip. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

The touch makes his skin prickle. The room is swimming in shadow, but there’s enough ambient light from the coals in the stove that he would be able to see Havelock’s face if he turned, and so he doesn’t turn. Instead, he glares at the wall, Havelock’s stupid trunk, the ugly peeling wallpaper. He doesn’t turn. 

“You’re making it sound like I’m some blushing virgin,” he says. “You realize I had a life before I was an Overseer, yes?”

“Of course.” Havelock grinds a little pointedly against him, touches his teeth to Martin’s shoulder when Martin’s breath hitches. “I’d bet you ten coin and a pint that it was nothing like the Navy, though.”

He…has a point. If Martin took him up on the bet, he’d probably be ten coin poorer at the end of it, and then some. His life as a footsoldier turned robber was a good deal less glamorous than most of the penny dreadfuls make it out to be, and he spent most of his time hungry and cold and worried about the possibility of the hangman’s noose. Company, when he could find it, often came at prices he could ill-afford.

Still. He’s not about to tell Havelock that.

“Well,” he says archly, “carry on then,” and yelps when Havelock shifts away and something warm and wet touches the backs of his thighs. “What are you – what is that?”

“Lamp oil,” Havelocks says. “Unless you’d rather I use the same stuff I use on my gun?”

No. No, he would _not_.

And he’s tense, suddenly, stomach roiling uncertainly as Havelock spills more oil into his palm and smears it between his thighs, the cleft of his ass, and Havelock’s hands are just…big – _everything_ about Havelock is big – and this was a stupid idea, he doesn’t know what he was thinking, he thought maybe Havelock could just…grind against him until he was finished or, or maybe Martin could reach back and lend a hand, he hadn’t expected _this_ and—

“Relax, Martin,” Havelock says. Urges Martin onto his stomach and hovers over him, big and implacable, radiating heat like a furnace. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Oh?” Martin says. It’s humiliating, how shaky his voice is. “Then what’s all – _oh_ ,” and the noise he utters when Havelock positions himself between his thighs and rocks forward is too embarrassing for words. “That’s. Okay.”

“Lock your ankles,” Havelock says, sounding strained. “More, nghh – friction that way,” and then he pushes his forehead against the back of Martin’s shoulder and thrusts again and that’s just – that’s—

 _Fuck_. Martin drops his head, the skin of his forearms cool against his burning face, clenches his eyes shut. Havelock’s panting against his shoulderblade, mouth open, breath hot; there are going to be red marks there in the morning from his stubble and Martin _doesn’t care_ because there’s something so weirdly good about it, the blunt head of Havelock’s dick brushing against his balls every time he moves, heavy muscles straining, big fingers digging into his hip and holding him in place. It would be easy, he thinks dizzily, to get a hand underneath himself. Fuck into his own curled fingers the way Havelock’s fucking between his thighs. He shouldn’t, he knows that, it’s not about him, but it’s been such a long time and it woudn’t take much and—

He groans and bites down hard on his own arm when Havelock utters a growl of frustration and ups the pace. Havelock’s grip goes borderline painful for a moment and then he’s moving, bracing himself over Martin with one forearm and sliding the other around his midsection. It’s like how they were earlier, almost, curved against each other like two parentheses, but now it’s…well. It’s definitely different.

“Squeeze your legs together,” Havelock says, low and ragged. “Squeeze – there we go. That’s good. That’s very good.”

And maybe Martin could’ve handled it if that’s all it had been, but Havelock _keeps talking_ , voice rougher by the second, coaxing Martin through it like he’s some terrified cabin boy and not a grown fucking man. It’s infuriating, and it’s also infuriatingly effective, and if Havelock groans into his ear and tells him how good he’s doing _one more time_ he’s going to crawl out of his own fucking skin because he’s so hard it hurts.

“Fuck,” Havelock grunts. “Martin. _Fuck_.” Forehead damp against the back of Martin’s neck, breath coming fast and harsh, moving faster now and – shit, the whole bed is shuddering, frame rattling against the wall and there’s no way the others aren’t going to hear and..and _know_ — 

—and that’s the thought that breaks him. Martin’s shoving a hand beneath himself even as Havelock muffles his groan of release against his shoulder, and the insides of his thighs are a mess, slippery with come and oil. He’s grateful when Havelock shifts over just enough that he can curl around his fist and _stroke_ , fast and hard and with far less finesse than he’d use normally. He just. He just wants to _come_ , he just—

“There we go,” Havelock murmurs sleepily, mouthing the back of Martin’s neck, and Martin’s hips snap and he whines deep in his throat and orgasm blazes through him bright and hot and _pure_. He feels muzzy and wrung-out after, exhausted in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time. It’s…a surprisingly good feeling.

“Huh,” he says.

“What?” Havelock replies. He’s got his face tucked against Martin’s shoulder again and sounds like he’s already half-asleep. At some point in the last several minutes he’d dragged the covers back up over them, and although the bed is still definitely too small Martin thinks they’ll manage.

“I think…I’m actually going to sleep well tonight,” he says.

“Good,” Havelock mutters and tightens his arm around Martin’s waist. “Because you’re the one sleeping in the wet spot.”

…this pub is the _worst_.


End file.
